I wasn’t going to post any more of Desert Rain, but there’s some interesting discussion happening, so will continue for a bit. How very Dickens of me! This follows straight on from the last post.
The tears that sting my eyes feel cool against the water as I slide under it, trying to soften the edges of what just transpired. Again. Sometimes I turn away, unaffected by Peter’s hurt. Sometimes my heart percolates up into my throat and the aroma of my guilt suffocates me. Why does he tell me I’m beautiful when we both know I’m not? How can he look at my nakedness like he did thirty years ago and see any resemblance at all to the supple girl I used to be? Why does he bother? It hurts more when he lies.
I run a hand down the rocky slope of my thigh. The other is splayed on a breast that slunk a few inches down my chest when I wasn’t looking, and the tears re-surge in my throat. He looks at me sometimes with such longing. I wonder if it’s longing for me particularly or just for sex itself. How long has it been? I can’t even remember. And then the tears flood my face and threaten to overflow the bath. A torrent of guilt swells around me, floods my skin until I bloat like a carcass after the rains; wasted, useless, redundant.
My lifeblood, my pulse, my rains, the sun, my Peter. I can sense him before he’s even in the room. The quiver from the heat of the water quickens as I feel him beside the bath. I relish in my nakedness with him so close. I will Carol’s thighs apart as she draws them together. He stands tall, my Peter. Tall, broad, beautiful; ageing like fine wine. The sweep of his cheekbones and the grey against his temples gets all women, young ones too. She hates this. Her jealousy is like a monolith between them and my voice is so tiny against its vastness that I am forever in its shadow.